The Virgin Deatheater
by Lyndalion16
Summary: One-shot He was practically a virgin to their brutal kind of life...


(NOTE): Why did I do this? Well, I just was so moved when I watched the emotional little 'wand ceremony' the students and teachers were doing for at Dumbledore's death, and when I was watching I was thinking "What must Draco be feeling like right now?"

There was the deep impression that Draco was just a kid who had gotten mixed up with the wrong people, like when a kid get in deep trouble when trying to join a gang.

And thus this was born.

It's probably been done a million times before, but OH WELL...

* * *

_Oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god...._

It played over and over again in Draco Malfoy's mind with each step he took through the dark, rough brush.

He was deaf to Bella's incessant giddy cackling and the sound of footsteps scuffling through the leaves as he and the others made their way through the blinding forest, holding out their lit wands to light the way.

All he could hear was that one thought, like it was panting and gasping from his racing heart. He still hadn't allowed the full brunt of what had just transpired fully sink in, in fact he tried his best to keep it at bay.

The rushed walking was helping. Yes, as long as he kept walking, kept moving, didn't stop, he could handle it.

Keep moving, keep moving, keep moving...

Alas, eventually his arm was grabbed and he was wrenched into ceasing his movements, almost causing him to drop his wand. He looked up to see Greyback's furry face stare down at him, his face positively horrible from the shadowing his wand's simple light caused.

"We wait here for Snape and then for the Dark Lord's summons."

He had always been intimidated by the large, vicious werewolf, there was no denying that, but at this moment he was just plain terrified. He had now seen firsthand what these kinds of people could do, what they were capable of.

So not wanting to anger him in any way, Draco forced up enough courage to simply nod.

A rush of relief filled the boy's body as Greyback thankfully released his arm and turned back to sush down the still ecstatic Bellatrix. But the relief soon vanished as all other thoughts came rushing back to him all at once, and he felt a growing storm of every emotion he had just so recently experienced developing within him.

He felt the raging torment of the battle he had fought with himself as the Deatheaters demanded he kill the great wizard.

_It was one thing to act big and superior to lesser people, to feel disgust and contempt for all he had been taught were unworthy, to talk about torturing or killing such bothersome insects._

_But it was another thing entirely to actually go through with taking the life of another human being, especially that of one who had never been anything but fair to him._

He felt the utter disbelief at seeing the unarmed, unthreatening old man be killed in a blast of green light before he fell through the open window.

_It happened so quickly. It could not have been real. Not possible. No matter how improbable and silly it sounded, there was always the childlike impression that Dumbledore was somehow indestructible._

_But it had happened, and no doubt Dumbledore's frail broken corpse would be lying below, the uncanny liveliness in the old body completely gone._

_Inconceivable._

He felt the deep sorrow at experiencing the massive explosion and witnessing the downpour of glass shards litter the floors of once beautiful Great Hall.

_So many memories in this hall, so many precious experiences, whether bad and good. A place where he had practically lived in as a child, a place he had always felt was safe was being destroyed right before his eyes._

_Now it was just as in danger of the Dark Lord __as every other place in the entire evil world. There was no escape now with the windows wide open._

He felt the intense terror as he followed the Deatheaters down the hill.

_It when then it finally dawned on him on how big this was, this was all entirely out of his league. These people were _**_killers_**_. Ruthless, unmerciful killers who enjoyed and fed on destroying and ripping life away. Evil and heartless._

_He had seen and done his share of evil deeds, but he was still just a sixteen-year-old boy, practically a virgin to their brutal kind of life._

_A pup amongst wolves brought out on the hunt too early._

He even felt the unexpected twinge of concern as fire was set to the large brute's hut and the flames of hell feasted on the large home.

_Surely Draco Malfoy could not care less whether or not the dolt owner was still inside, no that could not be it...._

_It was just one thing after another; there seemed to be no end to the wrath, the violence, the destruction. How much longer would it continue? To the Deatheaters it was the gay celebration of a dream come true, but to Draco it was the hellish rampage of a living nightmare._

The hurricane of such profound feelings overwhelmed him, swirling and reeling in his heart, his mind, his soul. He could hardly breath, his head was spinning, and his stomach was heavy and ready to burst.

Rasping out that he'd be right back to the others, he ran as fast and far as he could away from the group, begging his body to make it far enough, before he finally gripped against a tree, dropping his wand next to it, and retched. His throat burned as the sour bile was pushed out of his gut. His entire body ached from the pressure and tension.

And it repeated until he was only able to emit arid racking coughs from his stinging throat and searing chest. He slid down the harsh bark and sunk to the ground on the other side of the trunk where his wand lied, ignoring the rough roots that dug into his knees.

As Draco collected his breath, a new emotion was suddenly filling up his heart: anger. It began as a spark that grew into a ravishing fire. He was so angry at this, angry at himself, at his father, at Dumbledore, at the Dark Lord, at Snape, at the Deatheaters, at Potter, at Granger, at Weasly, at himself, at the **_whole fucking world!_**

With a frustrated cry that tore his already sore throat, he snatched up his still lit wand, wrenched himself up, and once more dashed off through the woods.

The forest whispered at him, sneered at him, tore and lashed against him as he bolted around the trees. He ran and ran, wanting....**needing **to get out of this stifling forest, not realizing that he was actually running to the edge of the forest that was between Hagrid's hut and the school.

By the time he reached the edge, a root reached out, caught Draco's foot, and sent the boy smashing to the ground, making his wand fly out of his hand and barely having enough time to catch himself as best he could.

His already sore body protested as he moved to sit up, and he winced at a sharp pain in his wrist, positive that it was broken. Again he was reduced to heaving coughs from running so quickly, and soon the coughs morphed into dry gasping sobs.

He couldn't handle this, he wished it had never happened.

He wanted to leave the Deatheaters forever, he wished that they would all just disappear and leave him to his own life.

He wanted to be back in his bed at Howarts, softly drifting off to sleep, feeling safe and cozy.

He wanted to go back in time and somehow prevent any of this from happening.

He wanted to crawl into a hole and hide there forever.

Hell, he even wanted his **mom**!

As ridiculous as that was, yes, his mom. There are some desperate times in life where many people still have that basic instinct to cry out for a loved one, and the desperate Draco was to be no exception.

She looked out for him, she could hold him and tell him everything was okay. That it was alright to be scared. But no, he had to be here on the ground near some godforsaken wood, shaking and quaking in painful gasps.

Then abruptly, he stopped.

He felt a comforting warmth surround his body that was accompanied by a thin, faint sheen of ethereal white light. Or perhaps caused by it.

He looked up to find the source and his eyes met the glowering Dark Mark that was now encasing a small bundle of the beautiful luminescence. Draco's breath calmed as he watched the misty star grow greater and glow brighter.

He was mesmerized by it's soothing beauty as he rose back up, cradling his broken wrist.

He stepped out of the forest and turned back to the light as it continued to spread, now realizing that he could see the impressive school itself, some parts silhouetted against and others gently bathed in the light's pale shine.

It was almost impossible look away.

But the spell was broken as Draco felt a searing pain on his left arm, the arm that was already suffering from a broken appendage. He gave a silent cry at the acidic sting, his throat too torn up and too raw to make anything louder than a whisper, and once again felt like he could cry.

The young wizard looked off to the side and could only see darkness stare back at him from the forest. His eyes returned to the glowing light and the school, and his heart was once again torn.

He could go back there, back to Hogwarts.

He'd be punished and probably locked up, but he would be with them. They who were undoubtedly the source of this beauty, they who were members of a real order.

They were just a few of the ones who had been born with such power within them, the ones that magic had chosen...just like Draco himself. But they were the ones creating that light, that loveliness, and it was something that Draco could not be a part of, something he realized that he'd had no choice but to be shut out from.

Now it is quite true that had Malfoy been in his 'right mind,' he would have scornfully dismissed these thoughts and continued to think to himself that they at the school were pathetic.

But now, at this moment, after what he had been through, they seemed like the very angels from heaven. And there were demons from hell waiting for him in those shadows in the trees, demons that would come for him, should he betray them, and torture him until he begged for death.

Draco felt broken when he realized that there really was no choice. The pain in his arm tugged at him, threatened him. He was branded as the property of the Dark Lord, he was his slave.

And He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was the antithesis of a merciful master.

The young man's body became numb as he turned away from the inviting warm glow, picked up his wand from where it had fallen, lit it, and trudged back into the forest to find his companions, forced to be resigned to the fate of defeated arrogant little prick who had bitten off more than he could chew.

The young virgin Deatheater disappeared into the darkness with his own meager tip of light just as the ethereal luminescence above consumed the evil pile of smoke and dissolved into the night.

* * *

(NOTE): Probably not the best thing ever, but tell me what you think anyway.

And if they're any mistakes, I'm sorry.


End file.
